


Absolute power corrupts absolutely

by Norski



Category: Eddsworld
Genre: Religion, Suicide, anti-religious action/language, thats a thing that happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-08 01:11:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14093733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Norski/pseuds/Norski
Summary: Religious abuse is rife, children being sent to gay-away camps, unhappy turned abusive marriages, indoctrination, lying, manipulation, the works. Tord wants to make a change, he starts with signs and protests, he starts with good intentions. Sometimes a good cause can give one man too much power.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is not "anti-religious propaganda" or whatever you want to call it - actually read the damn thing before you whine at me. I just got this idea a while ago on a bus, and rolled with it.  
> I churned this out in two sittings, one in which I wrote ~600 word, the second I wrote the rest - so fuck that proofreading noise this is free and it's not porn so maybe 3 entire people will read it.  
> Enjoy!

The path to hell is paved with good intentions, babying a child leaves them unprepared for their future, being harsh with students to keep them in line so they can learn teaching them only fear and unrealistic expectations. A following of well intentioned people can make a monster of their cause with just a few missteps and poor wording.

A man can gain such a following, should be loud and lucky enough.

A small crowd gathered before a church, blocking access to a bus churchgoers attempted to board, standing around it, preventing the driver from moving an inch without harming someone. Some Godfolk barked and snapped for the driver to run the protesters down, do it for God, do it for justice, not that she complied, she kept the doors shut and watched. The children with their bags watched, wide eyed and terrified, unsure who to root for. Their parents, whom were moments away from sending them to a gay-away bible camp, or the loud protesters trying to prevent them from going through cruel, rigid abuse under the name of God.

The crowd delayed the procession long enough for the CPS to arrive, assess the situation, and remove the children from their parents care, after which the protesters scattered.

No further questions or presence required, they’d done their job. The church was investigated later, and after having been found out for advocating illegal gay camps within the United Kingdom, was put under heavy scrutiny and eventually the pastor was no longer allowed to preach at the church - it was hard to do that from a jail cell. 

Tord was by no means a powerful man at that point, just a very determined one. One with money to burn. He chose to waste it not on fancy cars, instead he travelled the country with his protesters, gathering more as he busted more religious abuse. With every child he saved, he gained four more sets of eyes on his work, then six, then ten, then twenty. He was organized, he could pay peoples way to protests, he had a strong social media presence, and he had no _fear_. He knew the law, he knew what he was doing was legal. He would stare police officers down and recite the law, word by word, before them, arms outstretched as if nothing could touch him.

He had never been arrested, too much video evidence having been livestreamed to the internet saved, shared, to justify it - not just that, video of a citizen knowing more of the law than the average bobby, arresting him for knowing his rights would have looked well and truly awful. His following had steadily grown, his arrest may well have resulted in violence.

At that point, Tord was a harmless rebel.

He marched with signs, he stopped abuse in its tracks. He and his group had a name, they wore it with pride. They had shirts, a logo, jackets, all proceeds going into the cause.

They were The Red Army, and they refused to allow religious freedom to continue to traumatize the innocent. 

Eventually, his presence as well known enough across the UK that his old friends saw him on the news. It was a mixed bag - they thought he was doing good work, but that they would have preferred to know where he was going. One thought what he was doing was pretty fucking stupid, but that’s Tom for you.

It was even more of a mixed reception when he arrived on the doorstep.

Edd was happy to see him, Matt’s shitass memory was in full swing, Tom was a grumpy bastard about it, but Tord had expected that. That’s why he started with Tom.

He knew that the man’s beliefs were not rooted in choice. He knew his bitterness for Christmas was not based on his religious choice, he was used to being beaten for wanting to go have fun with the other kids during the holidays. He had to put up with his parents sitting fire and brimstone if anyone vaguely festive tried to speak to him. Tord knew Tom merely claimed to be a Jehovah’s Witness for the sake of not having to explain his trauma to total strangers when he refused to engage in Christmas based activities.

It was enough to convince him, surprisingly. He wasn’t attached to his religion at all, he still wasn’t even keen on Tord, but there was enough hatred for what he went through to deal with who he would be taking orders from. 

Edd and Matt point blank refused. If Tom was going with him, they’d need to stay back. Someone had to pay the rent and bills, look after Ringo, and be responsible fucking adults around the house. It was clear Edd wasn’t happy about losing Tom, since Matt was too much of a dipshit to do much other than occasionally manage to wash up after himself, but he wasn’t the kind of guy to try hold someone back.

Within the week, Tom had packed what he needed and left with Tord, working as a correspondent and right hand man. Tom grumbled about doing anything, but it would always be done, and done _well_. He was a determined man, and despite being on the scrawny side was a vicious and upfront body blocker. He’d tanked more hits and bruises within a month than Tord felt justified putting him through, but he always came out the other end with fire in those empty eyes of his, each success only making him willing to work harder.

No matter what the Red Army did, though, things didn’t seem to be getting better.

Even as branches started to appear in the United States, gathering popularity and population there, Tord assigning second-in-commands and giving orders in an attempt to stop his good name being tarnished by stupid radicals, nothing seemed to be changing even small scale, individual cases was an amazing feat, but he’d hoped that religious zealots would have started to fear consequences for their actions, considering the army had bugs and spies in almost every church across the UK. Even when pastors were exposed for stealing from the church, well loved community members being pedophiles, it seemed Godfolk were more inclined to duck their heads and simply pretend it wasn’t happening.

Somehow, some fucking how, he was going to have to get them to realize their ignorance made them just as bad as the people he fought against.


	2. Chapter 2

“The Crocodile Squadron has stopped two camp goers, the children are with the CPS.”

Tord looked up from the laptop he was hunched over, looking over plans, maps, receiving and sending information, something that was fast becoming a full-time job. He’d had to downgrade from full work to part time, which had left him in financial distress. Until donations rolled in.

His army, coming up to just past five hundred thousand members, was willing to keep their leader housed. Anything he didn’t need for necessities he put right back into the army itself, of course. 

Tom had returned from work with the news, phone in one hand, cheap gross groceries in the other.

“And the parents?”

“They’ve done nothing illegal by sending the children to camp because of the state, but there’s been suspicions of them having beaten their kids for potentially being gay, or trans, or whatever it is they’re taking issue with. They’ll be investigated for that.”

Tord nodded, quietly thanking Tom before getting back to work. The brit sat beside him, offering an unwrapped sausage roll, which he took gratefully. A lot of the time when not on the job, Tom was silent, or mostly silent, company. He’d oversee plans, point out typos, or offer improvements. He was trusted enough that any information Tord hard, he had a copy of. It was strange, seeing how much closer they’d become, considering they’d have been at each other’s throats a few months back.

A request from the Trout Squadron had Tord frowning. He tapped the screen, to get Tom’s attention. “Trout wants a car, or some kind of vehicle. They’ve got a few members and they’re now one short.”

“Doesn’t Wolf have a spare landrover? I’m sure they’ve got one donated or on reserve.”

“They did, but Trout’s area is small enough to traverse by bus.”

“Offer them travel expenses instead?”

So Tord did, which was received well with no complaint. Yet another church leader stuffing their bank account with righteous dollar bills, and Trout was planning on mobilizing to make it known. They had photos and evidence, which they’d blown up to fit onto large signs, to hold up outside of his church, so all of his sheep knew his deeds.

It was impossible to deny how fucking depressing the world was when he was constantly involved in how religion was being misused. Not that he’d voice that, he’d never expressed this to Tom - not that Tom was stupid, no doubt he knew, if the fact he’d come in to his room at disgustingly early hours of the morning to comfort him when he’d woken crying.

More than once they’d shared a bed, Tord having been unable to sleep or cease his restless tossing and turning when left alone. They never spoke of it afterwards, a silent agreement to let the past be the past on that front. There was no need to make a big deal out of it.

The sausage roll was made short work of, another handed to him afterwards. 

It was eventually Tom that hassled him to go to bed. He was reluctant, but in the end he knew his companion was right - he couldn’t lead an army if he was dead on his feet.

Sleep was a difficult time, he was haunted by the people he’d been too slow to save, eventually giving in and calling for Tom who was as quiet as ever when he lumbered in and climbed into bed. For a few moments Tord found himself wishing Tom’s interactions with him felt less like business and nothing else, quickly shooing those thoughts away. He didn’t need friends, he had an army to run. A trusted 2IC was more valuable than a friend.

He woke at 5am sharp, Tom already having left, having matters to attend to, then work to get to afterwards. Tord stretched out, wincing at pain in his back, pain he was heartily ignoring even as it got worse. He didn’t have time for doctor visits, either. He did a quick check of his message clients, confirming plans, giving permission, all that good stuff, before he dressed himself for his part time work - a pretty nasty cleaning job, but it kept him out of the public eye. 

Somehow, a hat, a fake moustache and a medical eyepatch was enough to hide his identity from any folks that would see him. Nobody bothered the janitor as is, let alone when they looked like that, and his boss was thankfully sympathetic to his cause. Once in a while, he was on bar duty instead of cleaning duty if the Salt Shaker was down a bartender, which usually paid a little better for the hours he was doing. He was hoping to be promoted to bartender at some point, he had been picking up the slack for a particularly lazy worker these past few weeks.

He was done by 1pm, and was immediately back on at getting the ball rolling on recruitment, and planning stages to bust a pastor that had been caught taking advantage of mourning widows. A disgusting man that didn’t deserve to be alive, let alone leading a herd.

The Panther Squadron was already on the move, London had a handful of squadrons but Panther was always on the ball, they were the first in and last out, they stopped at nothing. Wasp, Possum and Hare were always closely behind, and tended to block backdoor exits and run law enforcement to and from areas should the route be complicated, or body blocked by anti-protesters and the roads made inaccessible. 

He’d get updates on those soon enough, but even as his fingers glided over the keys, congratulating them on their self sufficiency and their time management, wishing them luck and power, there was a voice in the back of his head. It told him that this wasn’t enough, it would never be enough. Godfolk would feel justified regardless of what they did, and would only feel oppressed or some other term they picked up from minorities and tried to bastardize for their own cause.

He hit enter, sending the message off before leaning back in his chair, lighting one of the last cigars he’d been able to afford with his last wage. Something had to change, his smoking habit and something to do with the Army. Their methods were doing wonders, but they weren’t aggressive enough. Godfolk didn’t fear them enough to change their behavior, they didn’t see the consequences of their actions.

An idea hit him like a freight train when he heard the door open and close again, Tom calling through to him.

It all rested on how well Tom took some very unusual news.


	3. Chapter 3

“You did _what_!?”

So, Tom wasn’t taking the news very well.

“I understand why you’re mad, but liste-” Tord ducked to the side as the small coffee table was launched at him, his heart hammering in his chest. Ah, fuck. “Tom! Listen to me!”

“You’re the reason I’m a monster, why should I listen to you anymore!?”

“Because you could be what makes change happen!”

There was silence between them, Tom’s eyes narrowing. Tord was unsure just how that was being taken, taking a step back just incase. He’d rather not die, especially not to Tom of all people.

“So because it’s useful now, it’s all ok, is it?” Tom snapped, before sighing, body relaxing from it’s previous aggressive stance. He took a few seconds to calm down before he spoke again. “I’m going to beat the life out of you someday, Tord.”

“Valid.”

“What’s the plan?”

Tom didn’t like the plan very much either.

It took three months of going to a church every sunday, a very popular, influential church. He said he had 8ball eyes, that an injury had caused severe bleeding in both eyes. He took a symbol cane with him, acting like he was partially blinded, that he was turning to God to find community, people that wouldn’t judge him for his looks.

They fell for it. They took him in with open arms, said that God loved all his children. Tom would return home feeling sick, no doubt being there digging up his past memories and trauma. Tord would comfort him to the best of hs ability, and for a while, Tom chose to come to Tord’s room at night, needing comfort and to be with someone. At one point he hallucinated his father in the room, golf club raised above the bed - it took Tord well over an hour to calm him down.

Yet, Tom kept going. He knew that it was for the greater good. Tord offered him many times to drop the plan, or execute it early, each time Tom refused. He’d started now, he wasn’t going to let it all go to waste. It got easier, he’d told Tord, each time he went he felt less shaky or sick. 

The final day couldn’t come fast enough for either of them. Tom left for sunday communion with pep in his step, unusual compared to his usual dragged-feet pace. Tord couldn’t screw this up, he needed to pull it off for Tom, for the army, for every fucking child who’s life and innocence was torn apart under God.

He pulled on his blue coat, smoothing it out down to his knees with a smile, ensuring the faux fur ruff wasn’t full of bits and dust. He kept his red hoodie on underneath, this _was_ Red Army affairs, he couldn’t be devoid of his namesake color. He’d become known to his followers as Red, and was more than happy to take that name. It provided further anonymity, after all.

He strode out of the house, locking it behind him while his heart hammered in his chest. He went over the script in his head, over and over, muttering and mouthing it to himself as he walked. He felt a weird, almost painful excitement rise in his chest occasionally in waves, more frequently the closer he got to the church. He could see the spires over the tops of buildings, he was barely two minutes away from his destination, two minutes away from a new age of his army.

He didn’t let himself think. Once he reached the doors, he pushed them open, and with long, purposeful strides, he walked in and down the center aisle. At first, the pastor seemed to assume he was a newcomer trying to find a seat, but within a few seconds the man became restless.

“Yes, can I help you?”

“Yes, you can. You can step down from altar, close your bible, and let a man of real words and substance speak.”

A roar of laughter tore through the church, which Tord had of course expected. No matter what these idiots said or did, they couldn’t stop what was coming next.

“I shall not close my bible, nor step down, but you may speak.”

“Better than nothing, you are very kind.” Tord chuckled, straightening his coat out once more as he found the place to start in the script. “You’re all here to celebrate a mutual belief, yes?”

“That is correct.”

“A herd of compliant sheep and cattle, eating the body and drinking the blood of a man that didn’t even know what his dick was for, for righteousness and in hopes of a place in ‘heaven’, something you have no tangible proof of. You gather here each sunday, even more often than that if you are particularly indoctrinated, clutch your bibles and pray that someone, anyone can hear you.”

“What is your point? We have enough anti religious misguided heretics wandering through here.”

“Oh, I’m no heretic. I’m who you should be praying to.”

There was a mutter through the crowd, and he could feel Tom’s eyes burning into his back - that was not part of the script.

“Care to explain why?”

“I can do you one better. I can _show_ you why.” With a sweeping arm gesture, he turned to the procession with a grin. “Do I have any volunteers here tonight?” Nobody spoke, as expected. Tom was seated on the outside of the aisle, cowering and acting afraid best he could. “No? Well, I can always just pick someone can’t I?” He walked along the pews, one hand raised, passing it just shy of touching each person he moved on by. When he reached Tom, he placed the hand on his shoulder. “You’ll do nicely.”

As rehearsed, he gripped Tom’s shoulder and ‘threw’ him to the ground, watching as he scrambled to the front of the church, towards the pastor, pleading to be helped. The pastor did not move, he simply watched as Tord followed Tom, holding him down with his boot one they were both adequately in front of the gathered procession.

“Release that man, _now_.”

“You asked for an explanation, good sir. I will give you one.”

Tension grew as Tord crouched before Tom, who was shaking, eyes wide, both of them trying not to grin stupidly, knowing that this was all an act made this seem so ridiculous. Neither broke character, thankfully.

“What are you doing?” Someone from the procession shouted, voice high pitched with uncertainty.

“I will create a demon, right before your very eyes! A demon from this man, who already looks the part, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Now, there is no need to be cruel, his eyes are simply-” The pastor was cut off by Tord’s hand raising towards the ceiling, fingers spreading wide, everyone either leaning back or forward, in fear or anticipation of what would happen next, a clean split of those who thought he was crazy, and those who didn’t want to doubt him entirely.

“Oh God in heaven, Lord above, if you are there, stop me from making a demon in your own home, your own church. If you truly exist you will not allow harm upon one of your precious children, especially not here.” His hand lowered, hovering just above Tom’s head, fingertips just brushing his hair. “Lord above if you care for this man you will make him immune to my touch.” He waited a moment, and nothing happened, nobody stepped forward, and there was definitely no divine intervention. “Well, in that case…” He gripped Tom’s head, harshly yanking it back, so he’d look the sheepish looking pastor in the eye. “What say you?”

“Please!” Tom cried out. “Don’t let him hurt me!”

“Nobody will answer you, but it’s ok.” Tord’s voice became softer, more soothing. “It will only hurt for a moment.” He released Tom and stepped back, arms out either side of him, grinning wickedly at the pastor. “You will see the power of a real God in this church tonight.”

For a second, Tom was still, everyone seeming to relax - until the spasms came, Tom crying out as his whole body shook and trembled, legs and arms smacking off the ground against his will, eyes open wide. He moved far back enough that he’d be blocking the exit, and so everyone, no matter how far back they sat, would be able to see Tom.

Screams started to echo through the building as Tom stood, crying out as his body bent, snapped, changed. Horns sprouted from his head, hands becoming purple clawed hand, disproportionately large compared to his body, skin turning purple in large blotches, a tail all but exploding from under his hoodie, hitting the ground with a heavy _thump_. He didn’t fully shift, just enough that he was very clearly no longer human, enough that there was no way it was a special effects trick. 

He turned to the procession, breath heaving as he did, his form a terrifying sight to them. His lips peeled back over his fangs, letting out a bellowing roar, setting the procession scattering, desperately running for the door, crying, sobbing, begging to be saved. Tord merely stepped aside, allowing everyone free passage out of the church, while Tom followed. Those at the back of the crowd, and the pastor, witnessed as Tom was merely a few feet away from those not fast enough, looking intent to kill.

Tord moved between Tom and the sheep, raising a hand.

“Be still, demon. There is no need for you to harm these people.” Tom took a step back, tilting his head, tail lashing. “They are merely misguided. They believe any lie fed to them. You will show them mercy.” When Tom backed off, opting for crouching over one of the pews and glaring at the pastor, Tord lowered his hand, by then everyone had managed to pile out of the church.

The pastor was pale in the face, eyes fixed on the ‘demon’ before him.

“So, good sir.” Tord clapped his hands together. “Have I proven myself to you?”


	4. Chapter 4

Word spread of what had happened in the church. Tord and Tom alike were now figures to fear, who regularly appeared around large, well known churches. It cost a lot in travel, but nothing they did was illegal. Tord had not trespassed, as it had been an open church. No property damage had been done and nobody was physically harmed. Police paid a visit, but could only issue a warning, keeping Tom in their peripheral the whole time.

With the duo untouched by the law, things started to change. Churches had less and less turnouts each week, more people turned to The Red Army for better or for worse. Within two months, Tord had to have an official members list in place, as the member count was now from all around the globe, and pushing a million off members. Donations flooded his accounts, enough so that he and Tom could both drop work in favor of working full time on the army.

Pray the gay away camps saw barely a fraction of their usual business that following summer, people knew of a man that could create ‘real’ demons, they were too afraid to send their children away, when he could have sent demons anywhere, and had a track record of hatred against the conversion camp nonsense.

Tord hadn’t known that people had taken videos, photos, but it worked just fine for him. The videos went viral, terrifying even more Godfolk. Of course there were those that still doubted him, but he’d make short work of such nonbelievers. 

Their first trip to the states was well planned and underway within a week of reaching a million members of the army across the globe. They had started to run out of animal names that weren’t quite frankly hard to say for Squadrons, and so they’d picked up using mechanical names and the like. The Killahertz Squadron was one hell of a body blocking force, and was one of the Squadrons they would be seeing in person.

The plane ride was pleasant enough, people left them be bar the staff, who they were very polite to. They refused any free items offered to them, tipped well and kept up the appearance of very kind, very genuine people. There was some tension between them, in reality. The comment of Tord being some kind of God had been very offscript, and wasn’t what they were going for. The intention was never to even try scare people away from praying in the first place, let alone go down this route.

Alas, it had happened, and the change had been phenomenal in such a short time.

The trip to the United States wasn’t just one of meeting and greeting supporters, no. The United States was where a good chunk of people truly didn’t believe in what they’d seen. Now, Tord was very familiar of how batshit the US was with guns, and had a fair few gun owning supporters flown in for the planned event, to tote their guns and make it known that Tord was a very well guarded man.

It did the trick, it seemed.

Nobody opened fire on either of them, even as Tord had Tom kneel before him, and ‘force a demon’ out of him again, and again, and again.

By the time they returned to the UK, a fair amount of disbelief had been destroyed. More people turned away from their churches, some even from God entirely. Nobody had witnessed a miracle performed by the Lord, and yet, there was a man they only knew as Red, leader of an army, with a demon at his side that could force Tom to shift at will.

It was all going very well, Tom even eventually chilled out on the church script being deviated from. After all, if the people thought he was God, there was a reliable voice to tell them that abuse was wrong, that no God would will that upon anyone, rather than trying to interpret outdated words in an outdated book.

In public, Tord acted powerful, like he feared nothing. People feared him, not the other way around, and with a ‘demon’ by his side few people were willing to give him trouble. 

At home, though, Tord was prone to fits of tears. Tom would curl up with him, pet his hair and comfort him, sometimes partially shifted while he did. He’d started to associate Tom being somewhat monster shifted with safety, and it hurt an awful lot less to simply remain that way than shift in and out. Eventually, Tom’s natural state was partially shifted, only changing one way or another when needed for demonstrations and the like.

A phone call from Edd and Matt surprised the both of them.

Neither knew about what Tord had done to Tom, Tom had kept his monster DNA a secret for many years, which he promised not to change for the sake of the cause.

Soon enough, Edd and Matt moved in not too far away, giving Tord space from the people who believed he was really some kind of powerful being. He needed to cry it out, and be a person at least sometimes, he wouldn’t be able to do that without his secret getting out if anybody else lived with them.

“Tom?” Tord called out, curled up in bed. Within a few seconds, he heard the other entering his room. 

“Everything ok?”

“No.”

Without another word, Tom was up and into bed, pulling Tord against him, nuzzling the underside of his chin against the top of the Norski’s head, a low, rumbling purr sounding from his throat, something that they had both discovered not too long ago. It soothed Tord quickly, so it had become Tom’s go-to calming tactic. They didn’t speak while holding one another, if they spoke then it counted for something, something they didn’t need from each other.

Except, Tord had had something to say for a long while now. He broke their unspoken rule of silence, kicking himself mentally as he did.

“Thank you. For everything you’ve done.”

“Don’t.”

That was that.

Days on end were spent arranging marches, protests, gatherings. Another trip to the US was planned, a trip to Norway was planned, and a month after all of that they would be sealing the deal on a building in the UK to call their own, for the Army. Which Tord had noticed was becoming more of a religious following than an Army. He elected not to mind it, and hoped that keeping the strict regime and battling off comments about him being akin to an all powerful deity with humbling counterpoints. 

Nothing was going to stop the uprising of a new age religion, however.

The Red Army all but worshipped Red, they built shrines to him, wishing for protection from his wrath and luck in his travels. People carried out his orders as if God themselves had appeared out of the blue to request of them. Donations that came through had notes attached, seeming more and more prayer like by the day.

Soon, Tord and Tom were very rich men, granted they kept their shitty little twobed, and used all the money they had for the army, bar what they needed for their absolute basic living expenses. The army was self sustainable quickly enough, with vehicles, optional “uniforms”, which were in reality just shirts and jackets with the logo on, and even websites.

Membership to the army was required to be officially part of the movement, however people were welcome to tag along just to participate and help. Most of them ended up enquiring about formally joining the army, in which the fee was a mere two dollars to cover paperwork and postage costs, after which they were then given a shirt or jacket for no cost.

It was a lot for one man to handle, eventually the building that he had bought was used as an office, people hired or came in as volunteers to sort through paperwork related affairs, keep members in check, rely orders and plans, and the like.

His appearances in person became more frequent now he had a team taking care of the finer details, which only increased the turnout of new membership requests, eventually a good chunk of churches around the world were starting to close their doors, for good, not able to run with piss poor funds from a lack of churchgoers. 

Even religions that Tord hadn’t touched started to see a decline in practice, which had not been his intention. In fact, the knowledge worried him beyond belief. His influence was spreading, too far and wide for one man - and yet there was nothing he could do about it.

He had the change he wanted, he should be happy. Gay away camps were all but history, children weren’t being forcefed God and indoctrinated into an abusive system, but now everyone was turning to him like he was the real deity.

What would happen when he died?


	5. Chapter 5

Two years passed, of steady growth of the Army and decline of religious practice. Tom didn’t speak to Tord much these days, only on business, and for good reason. Tord had changed drastically. Everyone hammering in that he was their leader, their God, the man they trusted, had gone to his head. He rationalized the decline of religion, he ignored people belittling religious practice from his group, he didn’t have time to deal with it.

Mysteriously, he and Tom were eating very well, no more shitty own brand food. They had news beds, mattresses, laptops, they had a decent car, and a backup car. They’d upgraded from their shitty twobed to a bigger threebed, in which they kept a spare room for if Edd and Matt wanted to visit for a few days. It was no secret that in the time Tom and Tord had been quiet and not around much, Edd and Matt had ended up in a relationship, one that was functioning surprisingly well, so one room would be more than adequate.

Tom wasn’t complaining about the better food that didn’t make him feel like he had cement in his guts, and he slept much better on the new beds, but his concern was obvious.

Tord, on the other hand, had gone from fear and wariness to living it up. People believed everything he told them, he was the leader of a new religion, one that was strict on abusers, unforgiving of pedophiles, and would not put up with those who had intent to harm. Thieves were first sussed out for situational difficulties before turned in, if they stole things out of desperation then the army would help them where they could. If they were stealing for shits and giggles they were turned in with evidence provided.

It was a system of fairness. Each major Squadron had a stash of money and items to assist anyone in the army that may be struggling - transport costs, food, clothing, vehicle repairs, the works. Joining the Red Army was joining a community that genuinely gave a shit, and wouldn’t turn anyone down if they could help it. It was an efficient system, and one that hadn’t shown any sign of buckling since it was established.

Tord allowed people to worship if they wished. When he made public appearances, anyone that knelt before him would be carefully touched with a word or two of blessing. He didn’t encourage or ask to be treated like a God, but it was happening, he wasn’t going to fight it. If believing God walked among them helped them get through their shitty lives, who was he to tell them otherwise? This argument didn’t impress Tom.

That was one of the few things that hurt him.

He knew he and Tom had, despite their past, potential for something wonderful. If things had gone differently, they could have been more than partners in crime, more than just friends, he felt it in every fiber of his being.

He hoped each day it wasn’t too late.

They travelled the world one year, making appearances, greeting their followers, ‘blessing’ many. Tom allowed people to touch his claws, his tail, his horns, so they could feel how they real he was for themselves. He did not like the attention, he didn’t say a word while it happened, instead he acted as if that was merely an order. He only spoke when spoken to in public, playing the tame demon. Deep down, Tord suspected he was a breaking man.

However, through all the doom and gloom, Tord had made two very good friends. Paul and Patryk had appeared almost out of nowhere, and fast become two valued members of the army, somehow Tord had ended up with three total 2IC, which probably wasn’t formally possible. He made it publicly known that should anything happen to him, Paul and Pat would inherit his power, his respect, and the army.

Tom would always just be the causes dog.

A man could only take so much.


	6. Chapter 6

“I’m not doing this anymore.” Tom’s words hung in the air as thick as the silence that followed, Tord looking at him, the man stood there with his bags all packed. “Tell them you sent your fucking dog back to hell. Make another monster. I’m done.”

“Tom-”

“No. I’m done. You got what you wanted - you’re God. You’re the leader of all these people. You were meant to be the change this doomed world needed, and all you did was become the problem you tried to eradicate.”

They looked at one another for a few moments, emotions Tord had forgotten he could experiencing assaulting him and building in his chest. Sorrow, _fear_ , desperation. He didn’t want to lose Tom - he _couldn’t_. He could make another monster, as many as he so fucking wished, but none of them were Tom. None of them were Tom, who held him when he was scared, kept him safe, made sure he didn’t go off the deep end.

“Don’t go.”

“Why?”

“I love you, that’s why.”

He took a step towards Tom, arm outstretched, offering the other his hand, eyes and expression no doubt as pained as he felt.

Tom merely stepped away, and opened the door. He looked defeated, betrayed even. When those words left Tord, he closed his eyes and shook his head, jaw clenching.

“No, you don’t.”

The door was closed behind him within seconds. Tord could only stare at it, shaking all over. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there for, minutes, hours, hell by the time he came round it could have been days. He didn’t cry though.

No, not yet.

He started to write. He wrote everything. He wrote how to make monsters, he wrote how he ran his army. How he did everything. He wrote everything on paper, digital was too fucking risky. He sealed it in an envelope, and handed it to Paul the next day. Told him not to open it until seven days had passed. That it was incredibly important. That no matter what, it had to be opened then.

Paul took it with a confused look, frowning as he tucked it into his coat.

“Is everything ok, sir? Are you in danger?”

“No.” Tord shook his head with a fake smile, acting through his grief, like any God should. “It is...a promotion, let’s say. I just need to ensure a few things are in place before you read the contents.”

With a nod, Paul accepted Tord’s answer - no - _Red’s_ answer.

It was easier to retreat back to his lonely, empty house now that information was secure with one of the men he trusted with everything and more. He waited a few days, hoping Tom could come back. He tried to get in touch, by any means. No dice.

Day six rolled around, and he knew it was over. Tom wasn’t coming back. Edd and Matt had stopped bothering to visit. The world had changed, religion no longer held such a cruel grasp on the world, not like it used to. The world had improved somewhat, hell it had improved drastically. He looked over statistics and news articles about how the world seemed to be getting better, how less people were starving, that healthcare was more accessible than ever.

It brought a smile to his face, a bittersweet one.

It was all over. For him, anyway.

He waited until midnight, before opening his desk drawer, taking the gun out. He turned it in his hands while he smoked the last cigar in his box, looking down at it with dull eyes. He was drunk, and had taken more pills than any man should reasonably take, even when he wanted to die. They sat in his stomach, making him feel sick. They weren’t working fast enough.

He was starting to lose his mind, he was sure he barely had a few minutes of somewhat rational thought left in him. After checking if it was loaded, he lifted the gun, pressing the barrel to the side of his head. He looked dead ahead of him, the world starting to spin and warp around him. He saw Tom stood before him, how he used to look, before all of this. 

Blue hoodie. Vaguely kept hair, hip flask in hand, the other hand stuffed in his pocket, all those ridiculous piercings in and checkered accessories slapped on him at any goddamn chance. A short laugh escaped him, shaking his head gently.

“You’re not real.”

As his hand gripped the gun and his finger yanked the trigger, he hoped there really was no God.

He wouldn’t be an overly welcome visitor if there was.


	7. Chapter 7

The news reporter looked dead into the camera as she prepared for the report, stood outside of the notorious Red’s house.

“Red, leader of The Red Army was found dead in his home this morning. Paul and Patryk, his Second in Commands, have taken up the position of leaders. We’re unsure if they possess the same unusual talents as Red before them, but they have promised to show us someday soon that they can live up to Red’s name.”

She adjusted her position, heart dropping when she read the next section out.

“His old partner, Tom Rudgewill, was found at the scene, slumped beside the body, drinking an excessive amount of vodka. All he had to say was “The selfish ‘expletive’ did it before I could”, however it is unclear if he killed Red or if it was suicide, as Red was found gripping the weapon that killed him.”

She smiled and finished her report, cueing for the cameras to move back to the station’s presenters, lowering the mic and handing it back to the team. She made her way to her car, sitting in the driver’s seat, held together for a moment before sobbing into her hands.

Red’s death had shaken the entire army, and many had defected within the hour, claiming that no God could die.

The future was uncertain, more uncertain than it had ever been, for those that had followed Red’s orders and beliefs. She calmed herself down, rummaging around in her glove box for a few moments before taking out her purse.

She deserved a coffee, a good one.

It may be her last few minutes of peace before all hell broke loose within the army.


End file.
